The Family of the Golden Crane
by Shandy
Summary: Post Tarmon Gai'don. A look into the lives of the Royal family of Malkier. Nynaeve x Lan.
1. Lan: The First Sign of Winter

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**a l ' L A N**

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The snow was thickening. Giant white flakes of it floated past the window of the First Tower of Malkier, and al'Lan Mandragoran frowned.

"I will lead an escort," he said, voicing his thoughts aloud.

"This early?" asked his wife, looking up from her sewing. "Is that necessary?"

"The drifts can be unpredictable this far north."

"Saldaeans are used to the cold, Lan."

"I know," he said, and paused. "They have children with them. It would be a courtesy to show them the quickest path." There were winds and wolves and worse in Malkier's frozen wilderness.

"I suppose you are right," she relented. "Though I doubt Elnore will thank you for quickening their journey; you know how much she dislikes the young Prince. I cannot see how, for he seems well-mannered enough to me, and Faile no doubt knocked sense into him very early on in life. She's a very level-headed woman, you know. A good choice on Perrin's part."

It was quite plain from the way she spoke of him that his wife had trouble remembering that Perrin Aybara was a King now, not the Two Rivers youth whose bottom she had switched half a hundred times, but Lan could not fault her for that. For his part, it still took a very conscious effort not to call him 'Blacksmith.' A _very_ conscious effort, at times.

"Darrell would have made such a good match for Elnore," Nynaeve was saying. "Faile and I had hoped…"

"That they would develop a rapport, I know," he cut in as his wife's words failed. "But 'you cannot force the sun to shine', as Sharina Sedai would remind us."

"I _know_ that, Lan Mandragoran! Do you think I want my daughter to marry someone she does not love?" His wife sighed, the kind of long-suffering sigh that only a mother was capable of. She set down her sewing; Lan noticed with some amusement that there were less than ten stitches done, and those mostly crooked. His wife never had been very patient with needle and thread.

"The Light alone knows she cannot seem to settle on _any_ man for more than five seconds. Once I caught her in a corner with Managan's son. _Managan's_ son! The boy is _infamous_! If she would just..." His wife's brow creased in frustration. "If she could… well if only… if she- oh, Light, could she not atleast fall in love with the man I want her to?"

Lan threw back his head and laughed, a gesture that turned his wife's cheeks as red as coin peppers. "That is not the way I meant it," Nynaeve said hastily, though considerably meeker this time. She shifted uncomfortably in her armchair. "I only meant… Lan, I do not want to see my daughter marry another Mat Cauthon."

"That would be a grave misfortune indeed," he said mildly. Though in truth, he supposed his daughter could do worse. General Matrim Cauthon was rather well respected nowadays.

"She is changing, my love," he told her. It was true. Elnore was no longer the little girl who once stood no higher than his belt buckle. She had long since traded her dolls for silks and perfume, her high child's voice for a young woman's dulcet tones. "Did you yourself know what you wanted at that age?"

"Of course," she said, in confused tones. "I wanted to be Wisdom."

Lan smiled at that. _It is so easy to smile, with her. _A sunrise, he had once called her, and she was no less than a sunrise today. Only, other things grew old as the sun rose and fell, but she stayed unchanged… her face ever young, ever beautiful.

"Lan," she said softly, "I would come with you. To lead the escort, I mean. I would, only-" She laid an absent hand on her swollen stomach, leaving her last words unspoken. She was in her final weeks of carrying the child, if not her final days.

The child had not come without a cost, of course. His wife had never been famous for temperate moods, and when the babe toyed with her emotions she could be known to send even the bravest of his Kingsguard running for Tarwin's Gap. It was common for her to flit from fury to tears, from joy to despair, in the time it might have taken him to swing a sword. The bond ever carried a melting pot of emotions.

The very fire of her might have been enough to set a lesser man on flames, but never Lan Mandragoran. After all, he had called her _Lioness_ once too, and he loved the Lioness as surely as he loved the Sunrise.

And yet, the temper of a Lioness was the very least of their dangers. _This babe will be hard on her,_ Sharina had warned him, in confidence. _As strong as she seems, she has a small frame to carry such a weight. She must take the greatest care._ And Lan intended to make sure that she did.

"I would never consent to you joining the escort in any case, Nynaeve," he told her, regarding his wife with eyes suddenly serious. "Risks cannot be tolerated in your present condition."

"Oh, my _condition_!" she scoffed. "I'm quite sure I could ride a horse, you know, it is only that I have not had the time to attempt it lately, what with Maric's lessons and keeping an eye on that daughter of ours."

If Nynaeve al'Meara truly wanted to ride a horse or arrange a marriage or conquer a kingdom, Lan knew that nothing less than tying her up and putting her in a sack would stop her. But before that there was Nynaeve _Mandragoran_, and _she_ had sworn a vow. _Whoever commands in private, must obey in public. _If the Queen of Malkier was ordered to stay by the anointed King, stay she must.

But it did not follow that she had to be happy about it. Indeed, the furious words they exchanged before every leavetaking oft rendered their partings bitter, their separation longer and more trying. _But the reunions far sweeter,_ Lan remembered fondly.

His last journey had been many months past, when the babe had only begun to bloom. Treating with King Easer had taken longer than expected, which did not please his wife.

When he returned, he had showered Nynaeve with gifts fit for a Queen. Baubles for her hair – gleaming moonstones and blazing firedrops, glittering caps with golden threads, and dresses, dresses of all styles and colours, elegant blue Taraboner gowns and green Andorian robes, all lace and embroidery.

Flowers, too. He liked to see flowers in her hair. _When we wandered the groves of the Eye of the World, she wore white morningstar and pink heartsblush in her braid,_ he recalled. _My love, you were naught but a girl, back then._ Now her eyes had been subject to things that he wished they had not. And as must happen, she had grown older with them.

His stubborn tradition in giving these gifts was almost as stubborn as his wife's ritual in receiving them. More than once, he had ladled Nynaeve with baubles and dresses and flowers like a horse with saddlebags – a disgruntled horse at that – only to have her calmly place them aside and all but throw herself at him, showering him fiercely with kisses from brow to neck.

And yet he kept on. She had never wanted land, or gold. _But now I can give her that, and more._

And more was less than she deserved. It still brought shame upon him to remember the first cruel promise he had made to her, the tears it had cost her. _I have nothing to offer you for brideprice but widow's clothes_, he had told the Wisdom, harshly, foolishly.

But as it had happened, no widows were made on that day. _Only laughter, and music, and her._

Lan had gazed at her ot their wedding feast and never could have expressed what was in his heart, knowing she was from that moment made Malkieri. Years had passed, yet he could still hear her laughter, as silvery as the filigree circlet set upon her head, and see the gleam of the moonstones in her long, dark hair, tumbling unbraided and beautiful to her waist.

Looking at his wife at present, it was difficult to find any traces of that Two Rivers girl from so long ago. A Malkieri Queen sat in her place. _Yet Nynaeve is still there_, he knew. _She will always be Nynaeve._ The thought brought a smile to his lips.

"And what are you smiling at?" she asked him, too-sweetly.

Lan cleared his throat. "I would thank you not to attempt riding either. If I had my wishes, you would not stir out of these chambers."

Even before her face darkened, he could feel his wife's displeasure through the bond. "If you think I am going to sit here and rot in my chambers until the babe comes, Lan Mandragoran, you are quite mistaken. Babe or no babe, I have my duties."

_She must take the greatest care_, came Sharina's voice in his headHe left a tender kiss on her brow before taking his leave. "It will be dark on my return, my love," he told her. "Do not wait for me."

Yet as al'Lan Mandragoran's boots carried him down the winding steps of the First Tower, he knew that she would.

_I am still her Warder, _he told himself. _Taking care of her is my duty._ A duty he intended to adhere to. W_hether with her wishes, or against._

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**THIS CHAPTER:** My first Lan perspective… I kept it mild, nothing too challenging for me to write. Hope it turned out okay, fairly realistic for Lan.

**THIS STORY:** Basically, I had two Lan and Nynaeve stories in the working, sitting around on my computer and seemingly never getting finished. One was called 'The Spider' and was a small, would-be amusing look into 'a day in the life' of al'Lan and el'Nynaeve. The other was an untitled series of gap-fillers from unwritten scenes in the books. I decided to merge the material together and came up with this. According to my outline, it should be about 18 chapters long, and everyone in the Malkieri royal family will have atleast 4 chapters to themselves. Oh yes, and I'd like to add that I was inspired to write Lan and Nynaeve again after reading the fantastic 'Moonlit Walks' by EvilChani, so thanks for that!

**NEXT CHAPTER:** Will be a flashback from Lan, set during 'The Shadow Rising.'

**DISCLAIMER:** Suffice to say, all names, characters and settings of this story belong to Robert Jordan. Not me.


	2. Nynaeve: Leanna's Smile

e l ' N Y N A E V E

There was something unnerving about the Great Gallery. The tapestries of dead Kings and Queens of Malkier, Rhamdashar, and Aramaelle stared from the walls - watching, judging. They had in turn hair black as night, and as golden as a sunrise - yet every face was regal, powerful, immortal. Nynaeve could not imagine being one of them… and yet somehow, she was.

They were not all Mandragoran Kings, of course. There were Gemallens and Arrels immortalised in those walls, Kurenins and Venamars and Arovnis and more besides. It was worthiness that bound the monarchs of Malkier to the throne, not blood.

She noted those names to Maric, and smiled as he scuttled along behind her with his pen and paper. _My little scholar,_ she thought amusedly. She had rarely witnessed a child so young so very eager to learn of his ancestors. Though he seemed to excel at all things he attempted, not history alone. He was growing out to be a very sensible young man, she was pleased to discover. _Not like his bloody sister_, she thought with a frown Silk and laces and flirting - those were her daughter's favourite pursuits of late. Elnore feasted on the splendour and attention her royal status bought her… while Maric shied away from it.

Most especially around those of the opposite gender, Nynaeve was quick to note. She remembered one particular occasion that demonstrated as much. On their last visit to Camelyn, one of Elayne's youngest - a pretty young goldilocks of an age with Maric – had cornered and kissed him, and Maric had spluttered a string of embarrassed courtesies and tumbled backwards into a brimming horse trough. The girls had giggled, Elnore had covered her face in a display of sisterly humiliation, and Nynaeve Mandragoran had thanked the Light her son was not another Mat Cauthon.

_No, he is more like Lan_,she reflected. _And thank the Light for that!_ Maric had inherited – or perhaps mimicked - some of his father's grave solemnity, that much was obvious, yet he still managed to take great pleasure in noble pastimes – books and horses enthused him most, it seemed.

His fine black hair was growing longer now and though his voice had not yet broken, she knew it would soon. Then, one day not long after, he would wear the _hadori_, but it was for the men of the Kingdom to decide when. It all seemed very complicated. She had been Malkieri for so long now, and yet still their customs could surprise her.

Indeed, how soon to think of her son with _hadori_! He had not even seen his twelfth name day. _Light, but how quickly they grow_. It seemed only yesterday that she had birthed Maric. Fondly she remembered how he had gurgled and blinked on his first day of life, yet never uttered a single cry. His sister, on the other hand, had cried rivers and scarcely allowed her parents sleep a single night through for a year.

_And now another comes._ _What new trouble will you give us?_ she thought wearily. Already the babe was driving Nynaeve's tastebuds wild enough to make her blush at supper. Though she had grown to enjoy the spicy Malkieri delicacies so enjoyed by Lan, her stomach was inclined to disagree with such foods during her pregnancy. And yet… anything she had desired in these past months, Lan had somehow brought her. _The very best of husbands, _she mused, smiling.

"Mother?" Maric called, startling her out of her thoughts. "Here is Grandfather."

Nynaeve hastened through the Gallery with as much grace as she could muster and went to stand beside her son. Really, the boy was growing far too fast for his own good! The top of his head was at a level with her chin.

She followed his gaze to the tapestry above their heads. Al'Akir and el'Leanna gazed back at her from the walls, unsmiling. It was the last trace of them in the world, a tragic story woven in thread, and it had been known to inspire silence in someone even of Elnore's temperament.

Maric, of course, was silent by nature, and Nynaeve smiled when she regarded the reverent look on her son's face. "He looks very regal, doesn't he?" she said to him. Maric nodded wordlessly, as though not daring to speak in the presence of the grave tribute to the last King and Queen of Old Malkier.

The first thing her husband had done when the tower had been rebuilt was find someone who knew his parents' likeness and commission tapestries. Nynaeve still remembered the first time he had looked upon them. His eyes had turned so cold… and the bond had welled with something akin to emptiness. _He never knew them,_ she had thought then. _He is seeing them for the first time._

How she had wanted to comfort him then! _They would be proud of you, _she had longed to tell him, but the words had never come. Nynaeve thought that his feelings about his parents would be a part of him she would never know.

Their lives had been full of sunshine these past sixteen years, watching their Kingdom and their children grow. Perhaps one day they _would_ sit down and share the stories of their childhood. She could almost picture it. Nynaeve would tell him about the days spent tracking in the woods with her father, and Lan would tell her about Bukama. And yet… some memories were too painful to share, even with the one you loved most.

Maric was gazing at his grandfather, face filled with awe, but Nynaeve's eyes were more drawn to the tapestry of Leanna. The Malkieri Queen had been a woman of rare beauty and strength. _But who was she before she became a Queen?_ Nynaeve could not help but wonder. _Was she like me, just a girl, so ignorant of the world? _Even in her likeness, there was sorrow in the Queen's eyes. _How could she bear to give up her son?_ Nynaeve wondered, laying her hand on her swollen stomach. _I could never be so brave. _

Eager to see the latest commission to the gallery – which is why they had come to visit in the first place – Maric sought Nynaeve's permission to continue on with a hopeful glance, and scurried off when she granted it, leaving her alone with the former Queen.

"My Lady," Nynaeve said to her – for _Queen_ did not feel right, not now – "I hope I have done well by you. I hope you deem me… suitable for your son, and your Kingdom. I was not born a noble, it is true. And I was born far from your lands. I am not brave… but given the chance… that is to say…" She did not seem to be making a very good case for herself. She took a deep breath. "You sacrificed yourself for your kingdom and your son. I hope I could do no less. And… I can promise you one thing above all others… that I will take care of him, my Lady. I owe a debt to your son, but more than this… I love him. I will not let him die."

As quick as that, the Leanna in the portrait seemed to be smiling. Nynaeve smiled back at her and touched the red _ki'sain_ on her forehead.

The last in the Great Gallery was a grand tapestry, the most recent addition, its threads rich and vibrant. It showed her Lord husband ahorse, leading the newly formed Malkieri army into Tarmon Gai'don. Maric gazed upwards, his eyes shining with admiration.

"That was the same horse your father rode when I first laid eyes upon him," she told her son.

"Truly?" he asked, all astonishment.

"Yes. 'Mandarb' he was called."

Maric's eyebrows wrinkled together for a moment, before he ventured. "Is it… 'steel'? Or… 'blade'?"

"That's right, little scholar," she said, and touched his hair, so lightly.

"I'm not so little anymore, you know, Mother."

"I see that." She returned her gaze to Lan and Mandarb. "Though when we first met, Mandarb and I, we did not get on at all."

"He was temperamental," Maric grinned. "Like my _Ashan_?"

"Yes. Though after our first few meetings, we got on a little better. Thereafter I was glad to see him… mostly. He even… aided," – she would not say _rescued_ – "me on some occassions." In truth, there had been countless situations in which she had been happy to see that old stallion.

"That is a story I have never heard," the Prince of Malkier remarked, a hopeful tone in his voice.

"Not yet," smiled Nynaeve.

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THIS CHAPTER: I love the thought of Leanna meeting Nynaeve. Too bad it can never happen. Maybe I could do an AU one-shot some time.

NEXT CHAPTER: A flashback, involving Nynaeve, Lan and Mandarb! Gotta love that perky fun horse.

Discrepancy issues:

Some people asked about how the flashback ties in with the first chapter? My point was that Lan ended on the note 'Taking care of her is my duty, whether with her wishes, or against.' And in the flashback he obviously _does_ go against her wishes.


	3. Elnore: Twice a Woman

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**E L N O R E**

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Elnore heard the shouts from her bedroom window long before they arrived at the gates. 

"Those must be the envoys," said a weathered voice behind her.

The Princess swung an idle leg from her seat on the windowbox, head in her hands. "I'm sure I don't care, Sharina."

The old woman rounded on her, hands set firmly on hips. "I do vow, you can be as stubborn as your mother sometimes, and you have all the politeness of a Trolloc. You'll dress and you'll go and greet them as befits your station no matter how much you dislike the boy, or so help me I'll switch you from here to Andor!"

"What under the Light is a Trolloc?" Elnore muttered, but Sharina did not seem to hear. Half of the old harridan had already disappeared into Elnore's wardrobe, fussing amongst her dresses. "The cream gown will do, I think," she said, her voice muffled. "It becomes you well."

_Cream? _Elnore's nose wrinkled. It was far too drole a colour for her tastes, in truth. She would have preferred something a little bolder, brighter. She studied her reflection in the windowglass, running a finger down a wave of her long dark hair. The blue _ki'sain_ on her forehead brought out the blue of her eyes. Her father's eyes, she had been told.

She started when the the door of her room suddenly burst open and a young boy appeared, quivering with excitement. "Elnore!" he cried. "The Saldaeans have arrived!"

"Oh, splendid, Maric," she said dryly. "I can hardly wait."

"Nor can I!" he sang back, and vanished almost as quickly as he had appeared.

Elnore let loose an exasperated sigh. It would not do; he seemed oblivious to sarcasm. Infact, he was so innocent that it always made it very hard to be angry with him. Her little brother Maric was tiresome at best.

She leaned for a moment against the cool glass, letting her fingertips linger on the icy patterns left by the morning snow. But after a moment, Sharina cleared her throat - a subtle warning. _Yes, yes. I'm coming._

She took her sweet time at her dresser, just to show Sharina she would not be intimidated. The old woman sniffed her disapproval by grumbling, "Princess you may be, but you are certainly not the woman your mother is yet."

It was all Elnore could do not to roll her eyes. One moment Sharina berated her mother up and down with a sharp tongue, the next she praised her to the skies. Yet Elnore did not doubt the old Aes Sedai secretly delighted in confusing them all.

Al'Lan Mandragoran was waiting when they reached the Great Hall. Elnore kissed his cheek and welcomed him home; a sentiment which he accepted warmly. She took her rightful place beside them; her father, mother and brother; the family of the Golden Crane.

Standing tall and kingly, her father looked as powerful as ever, but her mother looked uncomfortable sitting on the throne, even though it was filled with pillows. _And no wonder, with her stomach so round. _Elnore thought she herself would gladly skip motherhood, if only to save her figure. At her own side, Maric shifted impatiently from foot to foot like he had an itch, barely able to contain his excitement.

He was not disappointed. The royal family of Saldaea made a grand entrance indeed, heralded by booming Malkieri drums, their entourage stunning with their flags and foreign finery.

"Al'Perrin t'Bashere Aybara," announced the Royal cryer, "El'Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara, Prince Darrell Aybara."

The stocky Saldaean Lord was more often called 'The Wolf King', though never to his face, unless you had a particularly strong disposition. Maric said he could command wolves, but that was most likely another of her brother's made-up stories. More credible was the tale that Elnore had heard, that Perrin kept wolves for pets instead of dogs. _I wonder if he howls when he laughs, _she wondered mischeviously, and had to stifle a giggle of her own.

The Queen of Saldaea was younger than her mother, but she looked older. She was still handsome, to be sure, but she did not have the ageless look of an Aes Sedai. Elnore was glad she herself could channel the One Power. She did not want wrinkles for a long time yet, thankyou very much.

There was no bowing or curtsying in the Borderlands; proud Malkier demanded no stiff bending of the knees or coquettish lifting of hems. Instead, men touched the hilt of their sword and then their heart as a manner of greeting, while Elnore and the other women touched a finger to their forehead, lips and heart. The gesture was cold and silent, yet spoke a thousand words.

"Tai'shar Malkier," the Wolf King said, when it was done.

"Tai'shar Saldaea," rang the voice of al'Lan Mandragoran, strong as stone. "Be welcome to the Seven Towers."

Once the formalities were complete, her mother greeted the King and Queen very warmly, even kissing Faile on each cheek. They sat, and the entourage disassembled. After a moment the el'Nynaeve beckoned her daughter close with a duty to bestow on her.

"You can entertain our younger guests, Elnore." The Queen of the Malkieri smiled when she said it, but there was a sharp glint in her dark eyes. A warning glint. Mother didn't always approve of Elnore's method of _entertaining_. Neither did Sharina, for that matter. Her father seemed to turn a blind eye.

"As you say, mother." Elnore looked her 'young guests' over. Lordlings and stewards' boys of varying ages… and varying wits. Some she had seen before. Tristane Bashere could be quite entertaining at times, with his booming laugh and quick wit. Rosy-cheeked Sameth Ghaline seemed to develop a stammer around her, and could barely keep his eyes on her face when they spoke. She had kissed comely Aidan Wywood under a fir tree when she was fourteen, and now he seemed to think she was besotted with him, all smirks and secret glances. And Prince Darrell she knew of course. _He looks like he's just eaten a rotten coin pepper._

"Shall I give you a tour of the Crystal Gardens, my Lords? They are so lovely at this time of year."

And of course, they could hardly refuse.

There were thousands of Gardens in Malkier, but Elnore knew the ones which were the most presentable, which showed the most beauty in this cold season. As she led the Lordlings down a path of snow-dusted pebbles that shifted beneath her satin slippers, she found herself wondering, as she often did, why her mother never used these Gardens. El'Nynaeve of Malkier famously seemed to prefer one of the untamed, scruffy gardens on the hilltop, with overgrowing weeds and wildflowers. Not very Queenly, she thought. _Not very Queenly at all. _

For Elnore's part, she liked the large, ornate garden. It was overflowing with fountains carved from beautiful white stone, so in the winter it seemed as though it had been draped in a lilywhite blanket. And in the centre was the statue her father had commanded carved in light of her birth, a swan. So it was her garden, really.

She glided through the garden with the Lordlings hanging on her every word, while the young Prince of Saldaea held back moodily, his eyes regarding Elnore with discontent. Aidan Wywood stayed at her shoulder, making jests that always hinted at the inproper, but never overstepped the mark. She laughed and touched his arm – so lightly – but it was message enough. Boys were so easy to please.

"If you take the path to your right you will find the Seven Cranes In Flight," she told them when they had been walking for some time. "It was fashioned by an Ogier stonemason called Loial son of Arent." She smiled. "No doubt you have heard of him in Saldaea, my Lords?"

There was a murmur of interest followed by a ripple of boasting – Sameth protested to having dined with him in Saldaea at an audience with al'Perrin, Aidan snorted and called him a liar, and Tristane barked a laugh and denounced them both for a pair of fools.

Elnore let them have their men's sport, allowing them to go on ahead of her. Instead, she stopped in her solitude to stare at her reflection in a shallow pool lined with dara lilies. A moment later, as she was fussing with her hair, another face appeared beside hers in the ripples.

She raised her face to the intruder, smiling. "Well, my Prince? Is aught amiss? Something you have forgotten, perhaps?"

Darrell Aybara cupped her cheek and pressed his lips upon hers.

In the last two summers they had shared a dozen stolen kisses and twice as many lovers' spats. She would not call herself 'unfaithful', but it was true that she sometimes directed her charms at boys other than Darrell. There was no harm in practising her technique and besides, jealousy could be a wonderful flame. When he was jealous, he was fierce, and when he was fierce, his kisses left her breathless.

Darrell broke the kiss first, to Elnore's disappointment, but they kept their faces close for a few moments, forehead touching forehead, catching their breath. She realised she was clutching his shirt, and let go of it hurriedly.

"I have been waiting to do that ever since I stepped foot in Malkier," he confessed.

"I was beginning to think you never would," she said breathlessly.

She thought the smile he gave her in return might set her heart on fire. _Light, but he is so sweet to look at!_ He took after his father more than his mother, but his eyes were neither slanted nor golden. She was grateful for that; Elnore sometimes wondered how Darrell could ever meet his father's eyes. He was less wolfish-looking than the Saldaean King too. He had the appearance of a born noble; his short black curls were always neat, he was slender rather than blocky, and his coat always bore a fine cut. A very fine cut, in Elnore's opinion.

She sometimes wondered why he was interested in her at all. The girls in Saldaea all knew the _sa'sara_, she had heard, and the phrase 'as forward as a Saldaean farmgirl' could not be all exaggeration. She wished she knew the _sa'sara_, so she could- _Best not think of that. _Her mother would say that dance was only for chits, hardly proper for a Princess of Malkier. And yet… _I wonder if one of the serving girls in Queen Faile's entourage would be willing to teach it…_

"You shouldn't encourage Wywood, you know," Darrell said suddenly.

_Stolen kisses and lovers' spats_, she thought with a sense of exasperation It was always the same. Five seconds after the season's first kiss, and Elnore was already sensing one of their infamous quarrels coming.

"He already boasts about you to half the guards in Saldaea," her Prince was saying. "And I have to keep my mouth shut, and bear it."

"It's his own fault."

"His own fault?" Darrell repeated, incredulous. "You were mooning over him like a lovesick lamb!"

_It was just a bit of sport,_ Elnore thought, but what she said was, "Hardly. I suppose he shouldn't boast. But it _is_ his own fault."

Darrell took a deep breath, as though steeling himself for something. Elnore knew men, so she just knew that the next thing out of his mouth was going to be some hairy-backed man drivel. Talking with the hair on their chests, Mother called it.

"My grandfather once told me," he went on, voice as strong as steel, "'A man must know when to retreat from a woman, but a wise man knows that sometimes he must stand and face her.'"

Well. She had certainly not been expecting that. _His grandfather?_ What strange advice to give a grandson!

"Elnore, why all this secrecy? I have kept your wishes." A lock of his black hair fell across his eyes. Darrell pushed it away impatiently but it only fell straight back down again. He looked so adorable doing it that Elnore felt the urge to kiss his forehead, right there, where the tight black curl had fallen. "But we have nothing to hide."

It was true that Elnore had sworn him to secrecy on the matter of their tryst, for reasons of her own that she had not yet confided in him. At court she feined dislike and he indifference. But even she was starting to see the inconvenience of their concealment; it was vexing to see other noble ladies showering him with their flirtations, praising his handsomeness and asking for dances, hoping to lay claim on him. _How long before some other girl catches his eye? _

"We are old enough for a betrothal," Darrell was arguing. "Old enough to marry, soon enough. Elnore, I know my parents will not object, and I do not think yours would either. Light, even I know our mothers schemed to have us wed when you were still in your cradle."

"We cannot," she said weakly.

"Blood and ashes, Elnore!" he cried, exasperated. The Saldaean Prince grasped Elnore by the shoulders roughly, though miraculously he managed not to hurt her. "What else would you have of me? Ask, and it is yours."

_A queen is twice a woman, wed to a man, and wed to the land, _Sharina had once told her. Elnore had visited Saldaea often enough, for sure, but… could she love it? Could she truly love it as she did Malkier? Saldaea was a harsh land, where the winters were sometimes so cold that they could freeze the sap from the trees. _You know just as cold a winter here,_ a voice in her head scolded her. _That is not the reason._

_I have to go to the Tower,_ she told herself. _To be Aes Sedai. _But that was not the reason either.

Her heart of hearts alone knew the answer. _I-I… I am not ready to be a Queen._ But she couldn't admit that. Not to him. It was hard enough to admit it to herself… but if _he_ saw such a weakness…

"Elnore…"

"I haven't even picked my _carniera_ yet," she heard herself say to him, her voice sounding very faraway in her own ears.

"Your-" His eyes went wide. It stung her to see the hurt in them, but she blundered onwards anyhow.

"Did you assume I would pick you? You flatter yourself, Darrell Aybara."

"Well burn me!" he growled like a wolf. Light, maybe he was more like his father than she thought! "If you want to make a lightskirt of yourself, it's no business of mine!" And with that he spun on his heel and walked away from her.

"A lightskirt!" Elnore fumed as his boots retreated down the snow-covered path. Oh, he would regret that! She was angry enough to set the sun on fire! _Forget the sun, I could set _him_ on fire!_ "How _dare_ you! Choosing a _carniera_ is an age old tradition in my House," – still he walked on, so she gathered her skirts and scampered after him – "and I'll have you know the majority of women very rarely take as a _carniera_ the same man as they take to husband." She bit her tongue, realising what she had just said. It did not follow that she intended to take _him_ for a husband, of course.

His anger seemed to quell at that – Light, he _had_ taken it the wrong way, hadn't he? – and he took a deep breath. "You are not the majority of women, Princess," he said quietly.

The way he said _Princess_ annoyed her. "I am who I am, Darrell. No more, and no less. And if you don't like it you have obviously misplaced your interests."

He stood so quietly for a moment that it sent a chill through her spine. "If that is your answer, then we can have nothing more to say to each other."

He left her standing there, trembling, her hands holding her silk skirts so tight that her knuckles had turned white.

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A/N:

**THIS CHAPTER:** It was surprisingly undifficult to build a character based on the line "Elnore has already begun practising how to turn boys' heads, when she is not pestering Sharina about when she'll be old enough to go to the White Tower." And surprisingly fun too. I tried not to make her too similar to Nynaeve, and very flirty. I hope I succeeded.

And yeah, I had to give her a love story, otherwise the motivation would be lost for me. I love my romance!

Also, I was deliberating for a long time whether or not to leave in the "what under the Light is a Trolloc?" line. It's meant to show the innocence of Elnore's generation, and the general sense of safety there is in her world. On the other hand, I thought she probably should have read about Trollocs in history by her age. But hey, she's not as scholarly as Maric, is she? In the end I thought it was more important to give a subtle idea of what the new age is like.

Oh, and admin:

Darrell: Dah-REHL, emphasis on the second syllable.

Elnore is sixteen going on seventeen; he is seventeen going on eighteen. Feel free to sing.

**NEXT CHAPTER:** Is the flashback of a Saldaean summer. Both Lan and Elnore feature; this flashback will be the only chapter where their relationship has much of a spotlight, so I want to really delve into it. However, I'm only about 600 words in; it will certainly take a little longer than this chapter to be submitted.

**For the reviewers:**

**Mask1 **– Thankyou, it is a pure joy to read your reviews. You give me so much inspiration to continue adding the little details to my fiction, when sometimes I think they go unnoticed. I agree with you about the balanced nature of Lan and Nynaeve's relationship. I'm grateful of their wedding vows – I think it served to temper Nynaeve's character and stabilize their relationship.

**spanishgirl** - Muchas gracias, tu ingles es bien! Es mejor que miespanol (de hecho, el sabado voy a Sevilla para mejorar mi espanol!) Quizas sea una buena idea que como ti compro un libro de Wheel of Time en espagnol?

**Mahine** – Hee, thanks for your enthusiasm! It really spurs me on! I know, I know, I sigh too at the thought of them sometimes…

**Jakie Marie** - Heh heh, thanks, you make it sound like I've accomplished something!

**Lady Whimsy** - Glad you agree with me on Lan's reaction. He's one of my favourites too, though it's really really difficult to try and get into his psyche!

**discordchick** - Thanks so much for spotting the error, I changed it as quickly as I could! Shows me I really need a beta for my fic, but I like to get them up on the site as soon as possible, a beta I think would always add on a couple of days. I guess in this case my reviewers are the unwilling betas!

**Nynaeve80** - Glad I'm not the only one who muses on these missing events! Thankyou so much for the kind words.


	4. Maric: The Swallow Takes Flight

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M A R I C

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"_The doom of Malkier began, perhaps, with Lain Mandragoran,"_ Maric read aloud. _"Lain was brother to al'Akir, King of Malkier, and there was much love between the two brothers."_

He blew dust from the heavy, leather-bound copy of _The Rise and Fall of the Kingdom of Malkier _before he turned the page. They had many libraries in the Seven Towers, the largest of all in the Second. Maric preferred it here, in the Sixth Tower. It boasted a veritable labyrinth of bookshelves, beautifully crafted sets of _Snakes and Foxes_ and unfinished maps of the Borderlands; yet it was solitary, always quiet. Once when he was younger Maric had become so absorbed in The Cycle of the Dragon that he had stayed in the library long past nightfall and unknowingly put the whole of the Seven Towers in a fret for his safety. It had been his father who had finally found him, dusty and sleep-starved behind a pile of books in a corner, and carried him back to the First Tower like a babe.

The First Tower of Malkier was the most important. It was where the Royal Family lived, ate and slept. It was where they received guests of high standing; Kings and Queens, Lords and Ladies, Generals and Captains and Panarchs. It was where the feasts were served, magnificent spreads of spicy coin peppers, crunchy oatcakes and succulent beef olives - all Maric's favourites. The First Tower was to Malkier what Camelyn Palace was to Andor; the beating heart of their Kingdom.

The remaining towers were less renowned, yet each held their purpose. The Second contained the grandest library, the Third the Great Gallery whose rich tapestries Maric had sampled with his mother but yesterday. The Fourth Tower he tended to avoid; it held a loud and crowded rookery where the King's messangers sent letters to the far lands. The Fifth was a tribute to wisdom and science, hosting the chambers of the Grand Maester, and in the shadowy Sixth the dungeons and confinement cells lingered, though they were rarely occupied in these peaceful days. The Seventh was an armoury, plentiful with jewel-encrusted daggers, forged silver swords, armour of the finest steel and helms to frighten the most fearsome warrior.

_Fearsome warriors such as Lain Mandragoran, _thought Maric, and read hungrily on. Locked in the pages lied the folly of Lain and his wicked wife Breyan, envious of his grandfather's throne. In a brave and foolish venture she had urged her husband to the Blasted Lands, where Lain and his men had perished, robbing Malkier of much-needed warriors.

"_But Breyan's ambition could not be sated," _the Prince read on. _"In an act of fury and revenge against al'Akir, she enlisted the hand of Cowin Fairheart to seize the throne for her son, Isam."_

Maric's books told of many women like Breyan, with malice in their veins, but there were only two women in Maric's life. His sister, Elnore, did not take much pleasure in the Maric's favourite pursuits. She did not come riding with him – she always said the smell of horses rubbed off on her silks – and he had never once seen her absorbed in a book, the way he could be.

She enjoyed the company of other boys, though. Infact, Maric thought that Elnore definitely had more _male_ acquaintances than female. She was always conversing with the Royal guards and bannermen and Lordlings of the lesser houses. Especially the handsome ones. She told Maric they talked about politics, but somehow he didn't think she was telling the truth. They always laughed when they talked to each other, and what was amusing about politics?

His mother took more of an interest in his hobbies. She had often overseen his riding lessons, taught him the history of Malkier and Manetheren and even taken him tracking. It was Maric's father himself who had recommended his wife for the task, admitting that she was perhaps better suited than himself. His mother had smiled when he said that, as though at some private joke.

The Queen of Malkier had even read to him until he was old enough to learn his letters, reciting _The Travels of Jain Farstrider_ at his bedside until the beloved pages were engraved in his memory. So when he had first fallen upon the name 'Jain Charin' in _The Rise and Fall of the Kingdom of Malkier_, his heart had near skipped a beat.

"_Then did Breyan and the Darkfriend Cowen Fainheart conspire to seize the Seven Towers," _he continued, running a finger down the beautiful old script._ "By their actions, Trollocs poured into Malkier like a flood, pushing the Malkieri back into the heartland. When Fairheart's treachery was revealed and he was taken by young Jain Charin, Al'Akir faced him in single combat and slew him."_

Maric shifted against the cold stone walls of the library, surrending for a moment to wandering thoughts. The thing was, he had lived eleven whole years in the world and still could not quite decide who he wanted to _be_. On the one hand, he wanted to be Jain Farstrider, courageous and clever, adventuring in the far corners of the world with his trusty steed _Jeade'an_. But he also wanted to be Artur Hawkwing – brilliant, just; an icon of men, adored by his people. And what of his noble grandfather al'Akir, who had wept as he killed Fainheart, was that not also an image to strive towards? Maric had even fantasized about being the Prince of the Ravens with his famed quarterstaff, though he would never dare tell his mother. _Though most of all,_ he thought, _most of all I want to be… _

A smile came to his lips, and he turned a page of the thick old volume. _"The first peal of the doom of the Seven Towers had been struck," _he began anew. _"There was no hope that Malkier could stand alone, with five thousand of her lances dead in the Blasted Lands, her Borderforts overrun."_ Maric licked his lips and forced himself to read slowly – he always got excited at this part, at the mention of his father.

_"Al'Akir and el'Leanna had their son, Lan, brought to them in his cradle,"_ he read, though he knew the words by heart. "_Into his infant hands they placed the sword of Malkieri kings. They anointed his head with oil, naming him Dai Shan, a Diademed Battle Lord, and consecrated him as the next King of the Malkieri."_

His father was a great man, and if Maric lived to be a hundred years old and only attained one tenth of that greatness, he would be satisfied. The current King of Malkier had accomplished innumerable feats in his lifetime, ones that were likely to be sung until the next Age. Of course, he would quite like to be as tall as his father too, if he could help it.

_"Then did al'Akir and el'Leanna lead the Malkieri out to face the Shadow one last time. There they died, at Herot's Crossing, and the Malkieri died, and the Seven Towers were broken. Shienar, and Arafel, and Kandor, met the Halfmen and the Trollocs at the Stair of Jehaan and--"_

Suddenly his reading was interrupted as sunlight shone through the arrowslit and splintered upon the page_. The sun is shifting, _he thought. _How long have I been sitting here?_ He came to his feet, stretching his muscles, and went to the window with the book still in hand.

He hadn't expected to be spending his days locked in the library. The first week of the Saldaean's visit had passed like a wondrous blur. Al'Perrin had been true to the young Prince's expectations; those bestial golden eyes just like in the stories. And yet he had spoken gently to Maric, even asking if he would one day visit Saldaea. Maric had liked him very much, but he had desperately wanted to ask about the wolves. _I would have, too_, he told himself,_ if I had not promised Elnore I would not. _

To pass the time, Maric had gone riding with the older Lordlings and held his seat as well as any of them; riding came easily to him. In the last few days, however, the group had splintered as some had taken to archery, hawking or simply wandering the endless grounds and gardens that Maric had seen half a hundred times.

Even Prince Darrell was less of a distraction of late. The young Saldaean was usually a constant source of fascination and admiration for him; Darrell always wore a sword at his hip, but unlike Maric he looked like he knew how to use it. He was always very cordial to Maric, but the last few days he had seemed distracted.

"Well, if it isn't my little Lord of the Seven Blunders."

Maric started as a voice suddenly echoed around the stone chambers; _The Rise and Fall of the Kingdom of Malkier_ went tumbling to the floor as a tall Saldaean Lordling entered the library.

"Joffrey," Maric acknowledged, with some surprise. He felt ashamed of the way he had flinched; it was hardly the response one would expect of a Prince trained in the sword. Only, he hadn't expected a visitor. "What are you doing here?"

Joffrey was the younger brother of Tristane Bashere, only two years older than Maric. He was the comely type, though proud, with a shock of rust-red hair falling across his slanted Saldaean eyes, which were almost black. He was not like Darrell; on the contrary, he was known to have a cruel tongue when his brother was not around to keep him in check. For some reason he seemed to target Maric in particular, though only when the more influential Lords were not in their vicinity. Elnore told him it was jealousy, and not to pay him any mind, but it was hard to ignore him when the Bashere Lordling seemed to actively seek Maric out.

"Using your time as wisely as ever, I see," the Saldaean said dryly, ignoring the question and instead reaching for the book Maric had been reading. "And what's this? Is it too much to hope that you were reading on your sword forms?"

Maric watched warily while Bashere leafed through a few pages of the Malkieri anthology, his features set in apathy. Finally he seemed to find a page that drew his interest, and arched an eyebrow over the thick black volume. _"Only five of the Bodyguards reached Fal Moran alive, but they had the child unharmed," _he quoted aloud._ "From the cradle they taught him all they knew. He learned weapons as other children learn toys, and the Blight as other children their mother's garden." _

Then his eyes met Maric's, and they were not kind. "_That_ is what a true king is. From what I've heard, your mother's garden is the _only_ thing _you_ know. They say she teaches you woodscraft and healing. A woman!" He barked a laugh.

Maric felt his insides twist with anger. The insult was too much, to imply that his mother's merits were somehow lesser than a man's. His mother, who had thrice defeated a Forsaken. His mother, who had fought alongside the Dragon Reborn in _Tarmon Gai'don_. His mother, who had helped raise Malkier from the ashes. "Don't you talk about her that way," he warned, his voice sounding harsh in his own ears. When the other boy smiled thinly, Maric's hand inadvertently flew to the hilt of the wooden tourney blade strapped to his waist.

The gesture seemed only to amuse Joffrey. "A wooden sword! That is truly frightening."

"Take it back," demanded Maric.

"Draw it, then," challenged Bashere, ignoring the threat. "Let's see how your… _stick_… fares against my _Lion's Tooth._"

Bashere slid his own sword from it sheath. Three kingspenny blossoms were emblazoned on its hilt, the symbol of his House, and the steel was long and cruel. Nevertheless Maric found himself eyeing the sword enviously. He had longed for the day he would finally wear steel, but that day would only come when he was presented with his _hadori_, when he became a man. And _that_ day could only be decided by his father.

Maric leapt backwards suddenly when Bashere thrust _Lion's Tooth_ towards him without warning, almost faster than the young Prince could think. But he had trained for this, trained with the best in the Kingdom, and he flew into the _Unfolding the Fan_ stance, blocking the strike and sending it back to his opponent.

Teeth clenched with concentration, Maric launched an assault with _The Cat Dances On The Wall,_ delivering a series of short slashes which Bashere countered easily with his longer sword. The wooden tourney blade felt cumbersome in his grip and it was hard to deflect Bashere's strikes with such a short range.

Bashere tried to back him into a bookshelf with _Striking the Spark_, but Maric dodged swiftly and sent a blow to his rival's left side, feeling the impact when Bashere cried out in pain.

Sneering at him, Bashere advanced more quickly, driving his sword forward with a renewed strength. Maric blocked the blows as best he could, but when the Saldaean suddenly feinted to the left he was taken off guard and mistepped, leaving his adversary a momentary opening.

_The Swallow Takes Flight,_ thought Maric, panicked, but he was too late in forming the stance. Bashere swiped the tourney blade aside – it fell to the floor with a clatter of wood. Maric lunged for it, throwing himself to the ground, but before he could reach it he felt the point of Bashere's blade catch at his sleeve, and he froze.

"Turn around." The Lordling's voice commanded.

Heart thudding painfully in his chest, Maric pushed himself off his stomach and cautiously turned himself over, his weight coming to rest on his elbows. They were both breathing heavily.

The steel of Bashere's sword glittered under the light from the arrowslit as it found the tip of Maric's chin. The Saldaean's smile was gone, replaced by a look of cool disgust. "A pathetic show," he said coldly. "Hard to believe that you could be the child of one of the greatest blademasters of our Age. I should be ashamed to have a son like you."

Maric felt the words like a knife through his heart. Burning shame tore through him as Bashere sheathed his sword, not even sparing his felled opponent a glance. The Saldaean stooped to pick up _The Rise and Fall of the Kingdom of Malkier_ and tossed it contemptuously into Maric's lap before turning on his heel and leaving.

The Prince of Malkier sat in the library of the Sixth Tower for a long time, the book open at the same page, but he never read a single word.

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**A/N: Wow. Bet that five paragraph swordfight really had you on the edge of your seat there. Well, I'm no Jordan. I hate writing action scenes, I really do. I hope none of you actually know sword forms, because if you do that fight will be completely nonsensical.**

**You may have noticed that the two flashbacks are now missing from the story. After many confused reviews I've decided that they need to be separate.**

**THIS CHAPTER: What do you think of him? Was he plausible as an eleven year old? I tried to add elements of childishness, like his insatiable interest in Perrin's wolves, his naivety in regards to his sister's 'pastimes' etc. Also, 'Joffrey' and his sword 'Lion's Tooth' were an homage to George R R Martin's little blonde monster, Joffrey Baraetheon from _A Song of Ice and Fire_. If you haven't read it yet, you should.**

**NEXT CHAPTER: Back to Nynaeve's point of view. I know it should be Lan's next, but he comes at the end instead. The King of Malkier is the most difficult character for me to write, because his intellect exceeds mine by far!**

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Reviewers… you are all so wonderful, I've never had a story with such detailed reviews. Please keep talking to me.

_**Ginny – **_Your wish is my command!

_**Tigasuporta**_ – Thankyou, I'm glad you like the style, I do try to imitate Jordan's style for credibility's sake.

_**Pennyante**_ – Sadly you were one of the few people who liked the flashbacks integrated, but thankyou so much for saying so! I will keep them all for my follow-up story.

_**BekaJWP**_ – Well, I took your advice on the flashbacks! Also, it gives me such pleasure to hear that my side story with Elnore and Darrell is engaging enough that readers want it to continue. And your sentence made complete sense, to me!

_**Rhett1980**_ – Thankyou very much for the kind words. Regarding Rand's fate in my AU… I haven't given it much thought in this particular story. However, if you've read my other post-TG, _The Third_, which is more or less in the same universe as this one, it's a little more implicit as to what happens to him.

_**Ashandarei**_ – I hadn't given much thought to Maric's having the spark, mostly because Asha'man don't interest me much. Maric himself is enough to go on for the moment! And thankyou for your insights on Elnore's throwaway comment. As I said, I knew it was a little unlikely when I wrote it, but I think I'll leave it in for the moment… it might be removed on a future re-edit.

_**Mask1**_ – Thankyou thankyou thankyou. Your reviews simply make me glow! I'm so amused that Darrell is turning out to be a favourite! Amused and very pleased. I love to include Sharina, I originally had an epilogue from her perspective, but I cast it away with the prologue. I do think sometimes I might be misrepresenting her because she seems a little more discreet in the books. Also I'm glad that you mentioned the warmth created within the family unit; only after reading your comment did I realise that warmth is really the heart and driving force of this story, so I'm glad it shines through.

_**Lady Whimsy**_ – So glad that you like my Elnore! Sometimes I don't like her, and I wrote her! But 'firecracker' is exactly what I was going for. As for Perrin and Faile, in my AU they only have a single son (this was going to be mentioned in the flashback that was taken out). But of course it's only my version of the future, I'm sure it would be more realistic for them to have many children.

_**Discordchick**_ – I'm glad that Elnore's behaviour resonated with you, I always planned to make her a miniature Nynaeve, with a little more flirtaciousness in the mix.


	5. Nynaeve: A Little Wisdom

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**e l ' N Y N A E V E**

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The winter frost made everything more beautiful here. It clung to the pear trees, glittering like white gold, and robed the crisp wild roses in glass. The Queen of Malkier's garden seemed something otherworldly, the clouds shifting so quickly in the flushed red sky that it seemed part of a dream.

Nynaeve buried her hands deeper inside the warmth of her furs, watching as the last remnants of her husband's escort disappeared into the remote east, past the snowline, setting the Saldaeans on their first steps homeward.

The children's farewells to their fellow Borderlanders had been frosty at best. Even Maric, her spirited little scholar, had seemed out of sorts, eyes fixed on the ground as though he had something to be ashamed of. As for Elnore and Prince Aybara… suffice to say, she and Faile had given up all hope that there might be a marriage between their two Houses. Nynaeve inwardly despaired for her headstrong daughter and for whose arms she might one day tumble into. _Another Mat Cauthon,_ taunted an unwelcome voice inside her head, and she silenced it hastily. _Lan would never allow it, _she convinced herself. The man's sense of protectiveness could stretch beyond the point of foolishness at times.

It was that protectiveness that had presently driven her to the wild garden. It was the only place in the Kingdom where she was sure to find peace from the guardsmen who hounded her at Lan's request. Here, safe in the view of the Seven Towers, she was permitted her solitude.

Nynaeve shivered when a stray snowflake grazed her cheek; a cold and fleeting kiss. There was something about unbroken snow that called to her. She had faint, fond memories of running across the frozen drifts near the Winespring as a child, cutting patterns with her boots. _Father made me snow boots from a deer pelt, _she remembered. She could almost picture him then; his familiar weathered face, his big hand reaching down to ruffle her hair. And when the winter winds blew it sounded like the pear trees were whispering in his old, beloved voice. _Little Wisdom,_ they might have been saying. _My little Wisdom._

Her heart ached with the bittersweetness of the memory. _It has been so long since I was that girl, just Nynaeve, Elnore and Willem's daughter… Nynaeve who grew up too quickly, who braided her hair too early. _

The Queen took a lungful of cold Malkieri air, swiped at the sudden tears threatening to spill from her lashes. _T__he babe is at work again_, she reasoned. _Trying to tangle with your emotions, like a kitten in a basket of yarn! _Her last few months with child had made her moods as changeable as a Taren Ferry master's fare; she laughed like a fool one minute, and was as prickly as a blackthorn bush the next, yelling threats at her husband and then weeping like a babe in his arms. Not to mention the distinctly one-sided argument she had had with a pair of Lan's muddy boots! It was humiliating!

Feeling the prickle of a sudden headache, Nynaeve found herself sinking gratefully onto a fallen, snow-dusted log. She tried to shift her thoughts to more pleasant things, away from her lost father, but they only turned to other memories, other winters… mixing herbs in Mistress Barran's kitchen with mortar and pestle, watching snowflakes tumble soft and slow outside the window. She still remembered the sharp smell of andilay root stirring her nostrils, and the crackle of the fire as the Wisdom threw on logs.

Back then, Nynaeve had always seen in Doral Barran a glimpse of her own future. A strong, reliable woman; a worthy Wisdom; a rock for the Two Rivers. Yet one who would live in the same old, lonely cottage for her whole life. One who would hold no true friends, only patients and critics. No, Nynaeve al'Meara of Emond's Field had never envisioned a stranger coming to sweep her off her feet. Nor imagined holding a child of her own making in her arms…

As if summoned by her thoughts, the pale silhouette of her daughter swept into view; Elnore Mandragoran seeming to skate through the drifts with that blue-blooded grace she so naturally carried. And yet… she was a poor version of the willful, strong-minded girl the Malkieri Queen's imagination had conjured but moments ago. While the Princess did her title justice - her beauty complimented by a white winter mantle – her face hinted at some deep trouble.

_She does not look well,_ Nynaeve thought, healer's instincts flaring. But whatever her distress, Elnore seemed determined to mask it. "Here you are, mother," she spoke, tone deceptively light. "I wanted to speak with you."

"Of course, Elnore," said Nynaeve, playing along. The girl was as stubborn as her father at times, unlikely to confess her worries without a little careful coaxing on Nynaeve's part. "Come and sit."

Elnore obliged her, biting prettily into her lip. "I wanted to know…" she began uneasily. "About you and father, about your first meeting…"

Nynaeve arched an eyebrow, surprised at the question. And where was her daughter's usual aplomb? "But, you know that story well, Elnore. We met on the journey to the Eye of the World." A small, fond smile graced her lips. "I thought it was your brother who loved the same old tales told half-a-hundred times?"

"I know that you met in the Two Rivers, yes," said Elnore, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice. "And that you were betrothed in a tower in Tar Valon."

Nynaeve flushed at the mention of the word _betrothed_; perhaps she had tweaked that particular story a little. The ring of Malkieri kings had been bequeathed to her for a very different purpose, to hear Lan tell it. And yet, where was the harm in her version? After all, Lan had not bothered to correct her back in Ebou Dar, so why should she correct herself now? _Perhaps I should make sure Maric gets the story from me… _

"And I know that you were wed in Malkier at the same time you were crowned," Elnore was saying.

Nynaeve shifted uncomfortably. Well, _that_ was not entirely true either. Their first wedding had been on the _Windrunner_. But better to spin a falsehood there, than let her daughter grow curious about the wedding rituals of the Ath'an Miere! _Burn me, I would never hear the end of it!_

"But that is not where love begins," her daughter finished passionately. As though she would know, at sixteen! "It does not begin in a meeting, or a betrothal. It happens in between all that." Elnore frowned at her hands suddenly, as though they had done her some great wrong. "I wanted to know… you were a Wisdom then, and father a Warder. And it was such a time to fall in love! How did you even begin? When was there ever a free moment to say it?"

Nynaeve's own hands suddenly became as fascinating. "We had made camp that night," she heard herself say, words escaping her mouth before she had even made a conscious decision to answer. "On the fringe of the Blight. Near Malkier."

_We might not have been far from this very hilltop,_ Nynaeve realised. She had seen the network of lakes from their campsite, and the ruined towers. Had felt the dark and clinging sadness al'Lan Mandragoran's dead homeland inspired... _and that __**thing**__ in the lake, Light, that writhing, monstrous thing…_

"Mother?" Elnore urged.

"The other Emond's Fielders were asleep," Nynaeve continued, voice quivering like a falling silverleaf. "I brought him tea, of all things. Made myself known."

Her stomach twisted as she remembered the moment his hands had left hers, as he had made excuses and left her, trembling, before the half-light of the lantern. _So very long ago. _Lan's words to her then were forever locked in her memory, the bitter and the sweet_… never stop fighting… never shame you… hate the man you choose because he is not me… widow's black as her brideprice._

"Light, it was madness," she sighed, "proclaiming myself like that. I told myself so a hundred times before I did it. It seemed as though everything was working against your father and I. Loyalties. Duty. Even age."

"Then _why_?" Elnore's voice carried a pleading note, which Nynaeve seemed not to notice as she gathered her strength to revisit her reasons at last.

"_Because_," she said desperately. "A part of me knew that if I didn't make myself known, I would have lost him forever. Our paths were too different. We would have gone our separate ways and never looked upon one another again. He would not have given me another thought. Somehow, I couldn't have borne that." As she confessed the words she knew them to be true.

Elnore had kept her silence during her speech, and for the first time Nynaeve looked to her daughter, wondering what scandalised reaction her confession might have spurned. But it was sadness rather than scandal that filled her eyes.

"What's the matter, Elnore? Are you unwell?"

Her daughter's small face was as pale as a morningstar and as cold as hoarfrost when Nynaeve took it between her hands. A simple weave of Spirit, Water and Air was all it would take to detect a lingering cold._ Saidar_ was there, she could almost touch it, just out of reach, like a blossom at the end of a long branch. Sharina had warned her as much; the One Power had come and gone as it pleased while she was with child. "It is no use," she said grudgingly. "You will have to go to Sharina Sedai."

But Elnore was reluctant. "I am not ill, mother," she promised.

_Oh?_ thought Nynaeve, _then why do you sound as though your voice is about to break? _"Are you feeling the loss of our Saldaean friends?" she teased, trying for cheer. But to her surprise Elnore's breath hitched ever so slightly at the jest, and an unpleasant prospect dawned upon Nynaeve. Lan's words came flooding back to her, on the marriage she and Faile had so earnestly hoped for. _Something about not forcing the sun to shine._

"Elnore, I did not mean to push you into a rapport with Prince Aybara," she told her daughter tentatively. Presently Elnore raised her eyes, blue and trembling, the way she had done when she was a child seeking her mother's comfort. _Well, it seems_ _I have hit the mark._ Encouraged, Nynaeve continued, "You need not feel bad for… _rejecting_ him as a choice, if that is what you are feeling. Faile tells me Darrell is very popular in Shienar. Perhaps we shall see him wed to some pale-eyed Shienarian princess with a topknot, hmm?"

She was hoping to elicit a laugh, or a smile at the very least, but found to her despair that Elnore's complexion had turned even paler, if that were possible. Defeated, she cupped her daughter's chin and turned her ashen face towards her. "I would never have you do anything other than follow your heart, Elnore. Do you understand?"

"Yes," whispered the Malkieri princess, those blue eyes as arresting as her father's, the colour of frozen lakes. "May I take my leave, mother? It's so cold."

Nynaeve conceded after a moment, though not without reluctance. _It is true what Lan said_, she realised, when Elnore was naught but a fleck of dark brown hair in the distance_._ _Our daughter is growing, growing so fast I can barely keep up. _Who knew what changes were taking place in her young heart?

Perhaps she would consult with Elayne on her next visit to Camelyn. Several of her daughters were past sixteen now… had left that dense and dangerous forest long ago. _Yes, better to go to Elayne than Sharina!_ Their Aes Sedai advisor treated _her_ like a daughter sometimes! Yes, and expected Nynaeve to play along with her mother hen act! _That reminds me,_ Nynaeve remembered, _I had better not delay my return for too long, or she will be angry with me._

Nynaeve kept a keen eye to the ground as she went, meaning to walk back in Elnore's footprints so as not to soak her dress in the drifts. Lan always teased her about the size of her feet - her cheeks warmed - _right before he takes them in his hands and… _

It was only then that Nynaeve noticed the other set of footprints had not returned to the Seven Towers. "Elnore," she said out loud. They were her daughter's prints, right enough. Anyone trained in woodscraft could not mistake such a thing. _There_ _is nothing for her that way,_ Nynaeve knew, incomprehension prickling her skin like three-needle pinecones. _She has headed east. _It was impossible to take a wrong turning when the Seven Towers were in full view! _So where has she-_

Something seized Nynaeve then, an old, familiar feeling that had not come to her in years. Faint, yes. Dull, perhaps. But it was there all the same, a fear bone-deep, enough to make her blood run cold.

Once she knew a storm was coming, nothing could stop it.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

THIS CHAPTER: My attempt at drama. Laughable, I know. Just keep in mind this story is merely a hobby for me; I'm not trying to be some grand novelist. I'm not a bloody great invincible Warder, as our heroine might say!

This chapter began a little too introspective and serious, but I feel as though I found Nynaeve's voice again in the later drafts which I hope returned a little humour to events!

I figured that if I want to finish this story before the last book appears on the shelves I should get myself in gear!

NEXT CHAPTER: Back to Elnore, and more pitiable attempts at drama. A fair piece of it is already written, so the update shouldn't take so long. I'll aim for less than a month!

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**REVIEW REPLIES**

**Ha ha, as soon as I ask my reviewers to keep talking to me, most of them stop talking to me. Lesson learned!**

**pennyante –** Ah, thankyou so much for the lovely words! They are my favourites too, of course, which is why no matter how brilliantly Jordan wrote them I was never satisfied. I always wanted more of their story. So I'm glad I'm giving you a credible version of their future! I'll try my best to keep it so!

**Ginnia** – Thankyou for such a detailed review! The Nynaeve/Leanna AU one-shot hasn't been written yet unfortunately, it only exists as the merest idea. Thanks for indulging me though, I love playing around with the concept. I think if I did write it I would take the easy way out in regards to their meeting, probably via something like the Three Arches.

**Mashiara No More** – The wonderful thing about writing in the WoT category is that I receive such eloquence from my reviewers! Thankyou so much, I mean it. As regards the flashbacks… that is exactly what I _didn't_ want to do by omitting them, retract from the narrative. But I was confusing more people than I was pleasing. You'll see them again, just not in this story.

RE: Your query about 'The Third' – I did intend the 'hooves' sequence to be linked with the one in the book. But, you're absolutely right, it doesn't prove an exact fit as I link it with the time that she's still pregnant, whereas the baby should be born by that time. I hadn't realised that. I think all I would have to do to remedy it would be to remove the Sharina reference at the end? Which I will. I wish you all the best with your aspirations, hope to see your books on the shelves one day! Goodness knows sci-fi/fantasy needs more contributions, especially from people who appreciate Jordan and Martin!


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